To live
by Esah
Summary: When a deserter stumbles into a little farmhouse late in the evening, will he be shunned, or will he be saved? Wounded and desperate, guilty and afraid, the Deserter runs.


Faces

_Prologue._

Faces. Everywhere. People he knew, friends, people he didn't know, people he never would. All around him, all harbouring the same hopeless look. Defeat. Defeat in the face of the enemy, and acceptance of that defeat- and yet, they still toiled on, trudging in the mud, dragging their feet, the same as him. Determination. A forceful will to live, to defend, to kill, kill, kill. Anyone not wearing the same itchy, constricting uniform as them, anyone not wearing the same soaked through, decaying boots, would be targeted. To receive a bullet in the head, the heart, anywhere vulnerable. Anywhere possible. As long as they could live.

And yet they knew, _he _knew that they would not. None of them would live. There was no chance of that, no reprieve for any of them. Not even the enemy. They would all, _all _of them, die. For some faceless leader, some man who ordered them to the slaughter for their own selfish, greedy reasons. Wanting to collect he spoils of war. Well, all they would be collecting was bodies. Covered in their own blood, the blood of enemies and the blood of comrades, friends. And mud. While they scrabbled for their jewels, their plunder, fisting handfuls of mud, that was all they would find. Mud. Mixed with blown off bits of flesh, and laced with blood.

Soon his blood would join the mass of wet dirt beneath them. His body would be trampled on, his lifeless eyes would join a thousand others. Lying in the goddamn mud. He would not bow to that. He would bow to nobody. And so, in the face of the enemy, from the shivering mass of comrades, with grime crusting on his uniform, underneath his feet always, he ran. He ran. He turned his back to the enemy and he ran for his life, abandoning them all. And as he reached the trees, reached his cover, gun in hand, covered in grime, he hated it. He hated the salt that stung his cheeks, hated the tears dripping onto his wounds. He hated his fear. And all because he wanted to live.

--

Swishing his hair out of his eyes for what seemed the millionth time that day, he looked up with squinted eyes, looked to the cloud-filled horizon to once again see absolutely nothing. Most of his workers had left months before, some to fight in the war, some to help those that returned wounded, to meet their loved ones and some to mourn with their families. He had nobody. It was just him. Just too young to be drafted, just old enough to look after the house that his father had left behind, that his family had died for when raiders came three months ago.

He could not leave. His whole life was here, his entire world, all his memories, everything. He would not leave. The only other person here with him was Andy. Andy, his faithful manservant, friend and adviser, always with him. He wouldn't leave either. Forty-two years old and ever loyal to the family that he served, that he loved, that loved him in return.

And so, he had Andy, and his house. His farm. Just enough crops to receive from the land, to get by on. And just enough left over to sell for other necessities. And he had his fathers small fortune, in case he ever needed it. He was getting by.

The sun's position told him that it was near six o'clock. The giant star would be setting soon, quickly, as it always did, leaving the world in softly illuminated darkness. And he would be able to rest, finally. Eat something. Enjoy Andy's company, relax until he had to do it all again the following morning.

His bedroom was upstairs, and was one of the only rooms left in the house that actually held anything inside it. All the other furniture had been sold or traded. Some of it stolen. Some destroyed. His bedroom, with a lock on its door, had been left untouched. A bed and wardrobe, a chair and a bedside table stood proudly in their respective positions, and from the window the sun would clearly be seen setting over his barely flourishing fields and garden.

The view was identical to what it was every other evening, and yet Naruto couldn't keep his eyes off it. The orange glow, bathing the fields, the trees and plants. And the moment before the sun set, when the colours intensified and everything seemed more alive than it had ever been, than it would ever be again. Naruto liked to think that he himself was included. Perhaps he looked happy in that moment, and perhaps some people saw him. The rest of the day was usually a miserable mess. People usually saw him in a grouchy mood, or a depressed one.

Mostly he was silent, and kept to his house. He didn't go into town much. Only when he had something to trade, to sell or to buy. This evening was one of those times. Earlier that morning had seen the last of the flour used up, and Naruto had eaten the rest of the bread he had made with it at lunch. Andy was out for the evening, on his night off, and Naruto had decided to cook himself some soup. But with no bread to accompany his soup, Naruto could hardly make a meal of it.

So, Naruto found himself on the road into town, cloth sac in one hand, little sack of money in his breast pocket and a weary frown on his face. Not many people were out and about so late in the evening, but as Naruto neared town, children appeared in the streets, playing with marbles or bottle tops, some singing and some of the elder children simply sitting and talking. Some parents and elderly were out on their porches, enjoying the sunset and watching the neighbourhood children.

The shops were a little past the double story house on the left with the whitewashed walls and the intricate iron fence that Naruto had always admired. They were built with sandstone blocks, now worn and old. Signs were mounted on the sides of each shop, hanging from rusted metal bars and always swinging in the dirt laced wind. The sign that Naruto was looking for was the third one down, featuring a cracked and peeled painting of a bag of flour and bag of sugar.

The door always creaked when he opened it, as it did now, alerting the shopkeeper of his entry. Smiling and giving a wave to the shopkeeper with his free hand, Naruto headed to the back of the small store, where the flour would be found. It was there that he overheard two women having a fevered conversation in whispers.

"…and it's said that they kill them!"

"But Jein isn't a deserter! It can't have been him you saw."

"I'm telling you, it was your son! In the woods. I'd bet my monthly pay on it, Menda!"

A sharp intake of breath, "My Jein? What does he think he's doing?"

"He looked wounded…"

"Are you sure it was him? Brown hair, brown eyes?"

The other woman sounded unsure now, "It was too dark to be sure, but I'd know that walk anywhere."

Jein's mother began to get agitated, "Didn't you say he looked wounded? Maybe he was stumbling!"

"Even if it wasn't your Jein, it was some poor thing- if they find him, they'll kill him."

Naruto stopped listening. He didn't think anything of it, it was just some poor woman's doomed son, stumbling around in the woods. A coward. Running away from the war. It would be cold out soon, and the unfortunate man would freeze. And so would Naruto, if he didn't get his flour and head for home very soon.

--

It was cold. His body was aching. His head was swarming with unwanted thoughts and memories, images of his friends dying, his comrades. The blood. Like the blood leaking out his side. The wound wouldn't heal unless he had it disinfected and bandaged up. And he needed sleep. It had alluded him for days, for weeks on end. Exhaustion was setting into his bones, and it wouldn't take much longer before they snapped. Always moving, always _moving_. He was ready to lay down and had been for a long, long time. But there was nowhere to rest except the leaf strewn, dirt packed ground.

Surrounded by trees, which looked like comrades and enemies when he turned quickly. Surrounded by the goddamn trees like friends that would never return, like enemies he would never have to face again. They would be out there, facing their deaths while he ran, pistol banging painfully against his leg, boots heavy on his feet. They would be out there, brave and honourable, resilient in the face of their enemy. Protecting their country. They would be out there, and he was leaning against the rough bark of a tree, miles away from them, bleeding his life out onto the dirt beneath his feet.

Dark was falling, and he missed the sun already. His feet felt heavier every weary step he took, and he found himself fighting to stay upright, to remain awake. He became suddenly and painfully reminded of a few months before, when he and a friend had been creeping up to enemy lines, covered by the trees and the darkness, just as he was now. The stars had been much clearer then, not as blurry or out of focus. He hadn't been gasping as much either. But he had been horribly frightened having to drag Sasuke's lifeless body back to camp after a surprise attack had gotten him shot.

Those lights hadn't been there back then, though. Nor the small house that they were emitting from. He stopped a moment, at the edge of the tree line, staring at the little white house in front of him, offering everything that he had been wishing for a moment before. Warmth. Sleep. Something to help his wound.

But what kind of person would help a deserter?


End file.
